


Idle Work

by paintbox (imstillprettyodd)



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Beards (Facial Hair), Domestic, F/M, Fruit, Hands, Nighttime, Scotland, the beginning scene is inspired by one from don juan (or if don juan were a woman)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22919179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imstillprettyodd/pseuds/paintbox
Summary: Monica asks Boleskine to open up its walls.
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7





	Idle Work

The tap runs with warm water. Monica stands beside Jimmy and takes his hands, slipping her fingers over the palms. She wets them, and with the two still held in her grasp, brings the lavender bar soap over his sullied knuckles.

“I haven’t seen them yet. Are they all ripe?”

“Yes,” he says, against her, on top of her. She looks up to see his lids half-lowered and the soft twinge where the kitchen light calls a reflection forward. His hair is full, unbrushed, and his beard grown so long it reaches the collar of his shirt with a drooped head.

Monica pulls her vision back to the sink. Loam hides under his fingernails. She takes the tips of her own and picks his hands clean. He’s forced to stay still — soggy heat and dead wood while she washes him.

“Help me clean them?” She asks and removes her grip to the ceramic bowl of raspberries. The fruits receive the same treatment as his hands, drowned and turned over in the bottom of the sink. She mixes them first, steps back and lets him finish, plucking their green stems away and settling the pile on the counter.

Her gaze gleams on his thumbs and the path they run. The individual drupelets, deep and wet red. His finger’s pad causes them to tilt away from the bunch. Monica takes a moment in the still of Boleskine.

She turns and waits for him on the sofa, bringing up her skirts to settle in a leaking circle around her folded legs. Her feet are worn and dirty from a morning of walking near the moors. She hides them when Jimmy approaches and places the bowl aside. A quiet, jovial touch is tinged on his mouth. He picks her up by the armpits and places her down again, over his lap.

Her knees bend and she settles to stare at him. An unfinished portrait sits drying in the room facing the lake, just swabs of color and spheres of form. Monica reaches him and gathers hold of his hair.

"I need to get these curls right," she says. Living on the water for a month or two — undetermined heat sits inside of her. He spends some of his time with her and the other performing. There are hours she hasn't counted yet.

The light above the sink filters past her shoulder and leaves Jimmy open. She reaches to her side and takes a fruit for him, pushing it past his open lips and watching the twist of his mouth. 

"Will you give me some time, then, to finish the painting?"

"If you give me some too." He feeds her afterwards and sips, with touch, the little bead of juice that falls onto her chin. "Messy eater. Lazy," he teases. 

She hums, a tilting smile on her face, and asks for his kiss on her shoulder. No words, merely a press of her fingers. Jimmy supplies and his mustache is rugged and prickling. He mouths her, open, tongue, closed. Monica grabs his soft hair again. 

His hands grip her torso, thumbs just below her breasts and fingers splayed over her ribcage. He undresses her from the top with the little buttons that line the front of her dress. A pale blue garment lying limp from her waist. 

Captured mouth — they both taste tanged sweet of raspberries — captured nipple. She holds him to her chest and tugs at his back to take his shirt from him. He breaks to shed himself and raises his arms like a man catching flight. 

He's fit for winter by now, red-chested and reading Dante in his off time. Monica's getting there too. Yesterday she practiced making candles. She laughs into Jimmy's throat; they turned out as clumpy messes. 

"Are you making fun of me?" He lifts her up and releases himself from his jeans. 

"No, myself." 

He plays across her thighs and moves them again, hoists them until she is sitting on him and he is flush inside of her. Her chest rises high as she inhales. A ragged breath pulls from his own voice. Her hands wash up to his hair. 

"More fruit?" 

Monica nods to his suggestion and kisses his fingertips. Their hardened skin makes her weepy. She remembers listening to the tapes he made for Kenneth Anger's film, the moan of the guitar, the quiet sad songs. Her eyes shift and her hips swell forward. 

Jimmy gasps and grabs hold of her. He listens to her breaths and matches her dance with thrusts: slow and heaved like the sounds they give out. Her skirts crumple and ripple from the couch like dull water. She wants to paint this, too, for private knowledge. Her back to the viewer, his feet raised slightly from the carpet like a tease, his fingers white, bare along the folded waist of her garments. She shudders when she recognizes him within her again. 

"I could get off just thinking about you," she reveals. 

He reaches up and picks a loosened, sweaty strand from her shoulder. "Then come."

A burst of air leaves her mouth, somewhere between a laugh and a moan. It's all it takes. She clenches her jaw and hunches over him to keep her soul steady. A little pause after she breaks and she's matching him again to bring him to his climax. It's her favorite thing, she told him on their first night in Boleskine, to undo him. Unraveling, all that cool demeanor and tight lips and little sometimes wrinkle between his brows. 

Base warmth echoes through her body. She leans towards him, hoping to wear his sweat and scent like layers of clothing. 

* * *

They finish the bowl of raspberries on the lawn in the dark.

He tells her about Sagittarius in the sky, the line and flow of planets and stars. She nods to understand and pulls little flowers up from the damp grass. 

"Here," she says and gives him a tiny purple thing. 

Jimmy lets his eyes smile. "Hmm, you're just like a medieval prince."

Humor sloshes in her stomach like wine. Her heels dig into the dirt, just so she can have it dry and pick it off afterwards. Her feet are even dirtier now. Jimmy twists the flower's stem between his fingers; his hands are clean save the red juice stains. 


End file.
